The twilight hasn't colors - the sky was gray, only some clouds which didn't call rain were soaring over there. A fine mist were hung above the blue water. The sea was full and violent. The waves up and fell down on the sand, almost drenching the two feets seated over there. Two girls were seated at the seaside, just watching the sky pass to white from dark. Each one was holding a cigarret on their tired fingers, the smoke of the Malboro Fresh Mint leaving their mouths as clouds in the sky, but soon to be led by the wind.

J. felt the nicotine fill her body, run through her sanguineous vases and led her on that previous way of the first cigar. The other one, B., has a no-stop talking, all time creating a new history to tell her mother (some of them good enough for a romance). J. was just listening, couldn't pay much attention. But B. insisted in chatter beside her, even if the other one wasn't really listening as well.

At some time, B. gets up, and walked to the sea. She looked at J.'s face and started to laugh so charmly, so happly, that J. could suspect that she was really enjoying that moment. Then, B. stopped laugh and suffered her cigar, again so charmly, that way that just could be her, anyone else. J. looked her, admired with a girl so singular, and more because she was her friend - or, in a sentimental way, one of the best person she's ever met. J. suffered her cigarret and let the smoke left through her nose.

A wave drenched the feets of B., alarming her, what made her jump behind a little bit and open her arms like she was falling down. She didn't, but again she started to laugh loudly and happly. That moment could take a hundred years, but just took a few moments, and then B. switch off her Malboro and threw that off in the garbage.

J. stayed seated on the sand. As faster as she could - and she couldn't go any faster than that -, she switch off her Malboro and get up a little staggering, to throw that off in the garbage. They came back to sidewalk and B. was still talking and inventing stories for her mother. Soon they were at B.'s home, and no one suspected anything about.

The two girls on the beach left her Malboro's Fresh Mint in the garbage, and the wind switch their completly, as long as the twilight  finished.

Dear Larissa,

This place smells like mold. All mobile has been given or sold or auctioned, but the dust still rest on the bank of the kitchen and around your inlaid closet. Or I would say our closet? I don’t know anymore, Larissa, I don’t know.

A lot of things happened since that day. I still don’t know why I got this crazy idea to come here today. They changed the doorman, our neighborhood moved at all, until that old woman with thick eyeglasses. Do you remember her? The whole building is strange; it doesn’t seem that we lived here for so long. Long time enough to the dust cover the floor of the living room.

As you know, the apartment is for sale. Is funny how these words make all difference when you say them. Probably it will come some state broker who doesn’t know anything about this living, or about the bathroom or even the kitchen. And I prefer not to remember our room. Can you imagine that? An unknown person come here and buys a place with so much feeling, so much memories. That’s so weird.  

I told you that I would take you away from the apartment when it would be like this. Empty. But the things had anticipated, out of the expectative, or at least of mine. That painful afternoon that I saw you close the door behind you, and the ached know that you wouldn’t come back anymore. The air was heavy, I could cut that with a knife, but I couldn’t even breathe while you throw all those things on my face. Writing this letter, I’m on the same seat I was at that day. And I still cannot breath.

After all, you lived, and forgot your present here. Remember? You told me that you would leave that every time you go to work, just for me remember that you will always be here, never gonna leave me. You were my guarantee. And now? Where is that? I think you forgot where the heart is.

Sometimes I wonder if you think of everything again. In some place of your memory have to have a place for me, for our; a square and white room with a bed also white in the middle. Sometimes I wonder if you think about me. Does it hurt, as it does to me? Have you ever thought how broken my heart is? Is that normal that you still be upset to me, and with a thing that I don’t know? We’re so fool, I am so fool… It only gets harder the more that you don’t know.

We came together here. But you left alone. I know how it feels, to walk out on your own.  I know that its cliché, but you pretty sure that I’ll catch you when you’re falling down. Just do something for me: don’t take me away from your memory. There’s my place, my home. And you don’t know how lonely is a life of a man who loses his home. Then, when you see me again someday, maybe you’ll look me in my eyes and call me your friend.

Now, I leave this letter here, in this empty apartment, for whoever else find and do whatever with it. And, with this piece of paper, I also leave my heart.

Carlos

So, this is my first time at Livejournal and i'll put my texts here. I don't expect you read this.


Yeah. That's it